


Not a Therapist’s Couch (A 5+1 fic)

by whtbout2ndbrkfst



Series: Alec and Anthony J (A Broadchurch / Good Omens Crossover) [4]
Category: Broadchurch, Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Bullying, Child Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Trans Male Character, alec hardy is an idiot, canon compliant child death, just talked about, nothing on screen, series compliant child death, this whole thing is just a reason to delve into everyone's hurt and then provide them comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:34:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23567656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whtbout2ndbrkfst/pseuds/whtbout2ndbrkfst
Summary: The couch doesn’t mean to be the place where all their most delicate conversations take place. In fact, the couch doesn’t make a habit of meaning to do anything at all. But the fact of the matter is, its comfy cushions and aged tartan welcomes everyone who sees it into taking a seat. And once they’re seated, the couch does its best to mold comfortably around them. If they then feel the need to spill their heart out, the couch will have you know it has nothing to do with it.Or 5 times people spilled their guts on the bookshop couch, and 1 time Ellie’s couch had to stand in.
Relationships: Alec Hardy/Ellie Miller, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Alec and Anthony J (A Broadchurch / Good Omens Crossover) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560010
Comments: 13
Kudos: 71





	1. 1: Grieving

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Part 4 of this series! I'm really excited for this one! (So excited it's taken over the How We Met story I was planning on writing first).
> 
> If you haven't read the other parts of this story, welcome! You probably need to read Part 1 for any of this to make sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set two months after Court Brings Out the Worst in Us.  
> Warnings for this chapter in the end notes.

Aziraphale has just closed up his bookshop for the evening when he hears a tentative knock at the door.

"Ignore it angel," Crowley says from the back room, sprawled on the couch where he's been for the last hour, "they'll come back tomorrow."

But the knock comes a second time, firmer this time, and Aziraphale dithers for a second before sighing and deciding to tell them off for not reading the sign that clearly says "CLOSED" in all capital letters across the front door.

"We are most definitely NOT open for business," he announces a tad unkindly, throwing the door open rather forcibly. The woman on the front stoop stumbles, surprised by the abrupt opening of the door.

"Oh," she says, "You must be Aziraphale."

"I am, and this shop is no longer open for today. We will open at precisely quarter past 8 tomorrow morning, Good day," he says primly and makes to close the door.

"Wait! she yells, sticking her hand out to stop the door from slamming, "I need to talk to Crowley," she adds desperately. 

Aziraphale squints his eyes suspiciously. _Who is this woman and how does she know Crowley._ "Why?" he inquires. 

"It's personal," she insists quietly; she's trying to placate the suddenly defensive man in front of her without stating her intentions. It doesn't work.

"Whatever business you have with Crowley, you can share it with me, or you can contact him during regular business hours," he says, not budging an inch.

"But - "

"No." Not interested in her plea, he's ready to slam the door again, but Crowley has sidled up behind him.

"Maybe hear what they have to say, angel, hmm?" Crowley says. He wraps one arm around his husband's waist from behind as he reaches to reopen the door fully so he too can see their guest.

She's familiar, but Crowley can't place exactly how he knows her. She's average height with brown shoulder-length hair, probably mid thirties, and if he wasn't distracted by how close she looks to exasperated tears right about now, he'd probably say she was quite fit.

"Crowley," she gushes, sticking out her hand, "I'm Beth Latimer."

It takes Crowley a moment to place her, but it clicks, "From Broadchurch."

She nods. "Yeah. Sorry for showing up here like this, unannounced, but I was hoping we could talk."

Crowley raises an eyebrow and silently encourages her to continue. She looks between the two of them and blows out a breath, tears threatening to takeover now that she's not distracted by the effort of gaining entrance. "I just didn't know who else to talk to. At the trial they said... and I just thought... well, you’re the only one i can talk to, the only one who _knows_."

Aziraphale puts two and two together, catches on before Crowley does and steps more fully in front of his husband, "No," he says again, more intimidatingly this time. He won't allow it.

Crowley is silent for a few moments, and then decides, "Let her in."

"No, Crowley," Aziraphale says turning around, bringing their faces inches apart. "You don't mean that," he whispers softly.

"I do," Crowley says equally softly, but meaning every word, "Let her in."

Aziraphale dithers on the spot for a few moments more, trying to gather what Crowley hopes to gain from this and whether or not he's making a massive mistake by allowing it, but he sees a determined calmness, a sort of resigned peace behind the ‘too cool’ facade he always projects when placed in uncomfortable situations.

"Fine," he says, taking a step further into the bookshop, he turns back towards their uninvited guest, "come in."

Beth complies quickly, afraid the offer will be rescinded if she hesitates,"Thank you”.

_________________________

"Follow me," says Crowley, already winding his way through the bookshelves to the private room in the back that leads to their upstairs living area. There’s a private lounge there, one he and Aziraphale often spend their evenings in, and he wants to be somewhere comfortable and familiar for this conversation.

Aziraphale follows quickly after wringing his hands. He watches her select an end of the sofa and Crowley chooses the chair directly across from her. "I'll make tea," he offers, starting to head back towards the front where there's a small kitchenette for visitors. 

"No thank you," Crowley says sitting up straighter in his chair. "I think we'd prefer to have this conversation alone if you don't mind."

"Absolutely not!" says Aziraphale. He may have gone against his better judgement letting her in, but he's not about to let his husband handle this emotional minefield on his own.

Crowley leans forward, but says nothing.

Aziraphale opens and closes his mouth a few times, no argument forming.

"Please?" says Crowley.

Aziraphale hesitates, then nods, resigned. "If you're sure?"

"I am," Crowley gives his confirmation.

"Okay, um, well then," Aziraphale continues apprehensively as he makes his way towards the stairs. He makes direct eye contact with Crowley, "I'll just listen to the next episode of that podcast on Medieval Lit then. And then I'll draw you a bath."

The message embedded in the words is clear as day: "I will go upstairs as you ask. I will grant you privacy and not listen in on your conversation. But only for a finite amount of time, and then I am fetching you, and I _will_ take care of you." 

Crowley hears all of it. "Thank you."

The pair sits in silence for a few minutes, listening as Aziraphale makes his way upstairs and down the hall. It's Crowley that breaks the silence.

"You want to know if it gets any easier,' he starts, "You want to know if the pain you're in right now ever goes away, right?"

Beth nods, slightly taken aback by his bluntness, how quickly they've gotten to the topic at hand. But still, she's appreciative that she doesn't have to put it into words herself.

He nods to himself, unsure what to say next now that he's ripped the Band-Aid off. He wishes he hadn't sent Aziraphale away before making tea - if only so he could have something in his hands. Too late now.  
He looks up at the woman across from him; this aching soul who understands something no one should ever have to understand. He wants to make it better, but planting false hope won't do her any good in the long run.

"It doesn't ever stop hurting," he says bluntly, honestly; it's best to start there. "But it does become your new normal."

She looks like she wants to say something, so he holds up a quick hand to silence her. He wants to get this all out without interruption. "The wound doesn't ever heal completely, but after time you'll find it's no longer open and festering." He looks directly into her eyes, "no longer threatening to kill you."

She nods; she's been there.

He continues, "There's no one point when you can say 'I'm okay now; I've moved on.' You'll climb up out of the pit of despair you find yourself in one raw and bloody step at a time until you reach flat ground, only to realize that now there's a mountain there you got to climb. And the mountain stretches on forever. It dips down only to go back uphill again. And sometimes after a period of easier terrain, the harder it is when you come to the next gaping crevasse."

He makes eye contact again, making sure he hasn't lost her with his extended metaphor. She doesn't appear to be breathing, gripping the pillow in her lap so tightly it might tear, but she nods slowly, so he continues. 

"As time goes by, sometimes you'll see the pitfalls coming: there's warning signs, triggers, you'll eventually learn to avoid, but," he pauses to blow out a breath, "but other times, completely without reason, it slaps you in the face unexpectedly so hard that you can't even breathe."

"I know you want me to tell you that someday you'll be okay again, and I guess I'm here to tell you that you will be. But a new kind of okay. Not the same kind of okay as before."

"Your future isn't just the pit of despair, okay? The pit doesn't disappear no matter how much time you spend climbing out of it. But you can plant new roots there. Surround yourself with people you love and who love you; rekindle old hobbies you've lost the time for; cry when you need to; reread favorite novels; talk to a therapist - Put active effort into making that pit something you can live in, so when you fall back into you can crawl back out again before it kills you." 

He’s finished now and when he looks up again, she's wiping snot and tears from her face with the back of her hand. It's not until he makes to offer her a tissue that he realizes he's crying himself.

"Thank you," she says, "Thank you."

He has nothing more to add and she’s still processing everything he said, so they sit in comfortable silence, both lost in their own thoughts. 

A short while later, they hear movement from upstairs - Aziraphale walking down the hall to draw a bath most likely - and it reminds them that there's a world outside the two of them and their bubble of shared grief.

"Thank you," Beth says again, wiping her face again as she stands.

Crowley nods his acceptance, "Do you want to sleep on the couch?"

"No, no, I have a hotel room," she says quickly, "Chloe's waiting for me there."

Crowley nods again, glad that she has someone to spend the rest of the evening with. "Here's my number," he says, finding a stray piece of paper and scribbling down the digits, "If you need to talk, call me."

"Thank you," she says a third time, "I know I keep saying it, but seriously, thank you. You don't know how much this helped. How much I needed this. I know this was incredibly hard for you and you don’t even know me, and… just… thank you."

Crowley notices Aziraphale lingering at the top of the stairs, admirably but impatiently waiting until they finish, so he starts walking her towards the door.

"I'm sorry for showing up unannounced," Beth says once they've reached the front step, "It was just one of those days, and I needed answers, and..." she trails off.

"I understand," he says, not sure if he’s finishing her thought or starting a new one.

"Yeah, you do," she says, and she steps out into the brisk London air.

\---------------

She's been gone for less than a minute when Crowley feels Aziraphale behind him, turning him around, and pressing soft gentle kisses to his lips, cheeks, forehead - saying nothing as he wipes the tears off his face. He slowly pulls Crowley up the stairs and down the hallway of their flat, watching him for signs of falling apart as they go.

He helps his husband strip down while adding more hot water to the tub and encourages Crowley to lean against him while stepping in.

"What do you need?," Aziraphale whispers once Crowley has settled himself in the water.

Crowley sinks further into the tub, reaching up and guiding Aziraphale's hands to his hair as he closes his eyes. "You".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that deals with child death: no new death or description of death just discussion of loss and grieving. If you don't want to read it, you can skip it. All chapters are stand alone stories.
> 
> **
> 
> Love you all! Happy Passover to those who celebrate!
> 
> Chapter 2 up by Monday.


	2. 2: Transitioning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set approximately 10 years before Voices from the Dead

When he happens to have time off to lounge around the shop, Crowley enjoys watching Aziraphale’s newest employee work, mostly because he has never seen somebody so grossly inept at working modern technology. Especially a teenager. He knows he’s usually not hanging around the shop to see it, but he swears the till is broken at least once an afternoon. And from the amount of creative swearing coming from the other side of the room at the moment, he knows today is no exception.

When Aziraphale first announced he was hiring someone to work in the shop a few months ago, Crowley was shocked: his Zira letting someone else touch his books? Impossible. However, upon meeting the newest hire that shock quickly faded. Aziraphale had been rescuing disaster queers - himself included - for his entire adult life; it was only an amount of time until he hired one.

And Crowley has to give it to his husband, this one IS particularly good at making sense of the shelving rules despite Aziraphale’s completely ridiculous organizational system. Even Crowley doesn’t really understand why Romeo and Juliet is shelved next to The Great Gatsby instead of Hamlet and Richard II.

But today, three months or so into said employment, there seems to be an excessive amount of cursing for someone who breaks the till on a daily basis and is that - _oh drats it is_ \- tears! to accompany it. _That’s new._

Instead of attempting his own brand of comfort, Crowley seeks out his husband on the far end of the shop, who is unsurprisingly happily buried in a novel and completely unaware of the individuals around him, let alone their emotional states. “Angel,” he whispers, “Your employee is crying all over the receipts.”

“Oh dear,” says Aziraphale, looking up. 

Taking in the scene, he quickly tucks a well-worn bookmark between the pages and stands.

“Come child, put that down, no, no, don’t fret, I’m sure we can fix it.” He shoots Crowley a pleading look. Crowley just rolls his eyes and nods. Of course he’ll fix it. Just like he did yesterday, and the day before, and every other day this month and last.

“It looks like you’re having a rough day,” says Aziraphale and Crowley has to stop himself from rolling his eyes again, “Nothing that a good cup of tea can’t fix,” he continues while steering the two of them into the back room. “What _ever_ is troubling you?”

Silence for a few moments, and then, “I was wondering if I could have a new name tag?” 

Aziraphale blinks, wants to ask for that to be repeated, but knows he heard it perfectly clearly.

“One that says Norman.”  


Oh. _Oh._

Before Aziraphale has time to formulate a valid response - thank you for trusting him with this, of course he can make a new name tag, what resources can I help provide you with - Crowley has already interjected with something entirely unexpected: “No.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale turns sharply to face his husband who at least has the decency to look embarrassed.

“Dear - boy?” Aziraphale pauses to give his charge a chance to nod meekly in affirmation before continuing, “Dear boy, ignore him”, tamping down on the ire he currently feels towards Crowley.

But Crowley plows on, “Ugh, sorry, sorry, meant no, no young man is going to sit on our couch and decide to go by _Norman,_ Aziraphale”. He folds his arms across this chest. “Why not Daniel? Or Chase. Or Liam. Or …”

“It has to start with N,” he pipes up.

Crowley pauses, mouth open. He clicks it shut.

“My dad has all our initials tattooed across his bicep.””

Aziraphale nods enthusiastically, “okay... Norman.”

“Not. Norman.” insists Crowley again, making his way further into the room. “There was no actual thought put into that, was there?”

A head shake to confirm Crowley’s suspicions.

“Right then, we’ll just call you Pulisifer until you’ve decided on something acceptable.”

The kid nods.

“Nathaniel? Nexus? Nehemiah?”

Pulsifer smiles for the first time all morning; the choices are getting more ridiculous. _This coming from the guy who’s opposed to Norman??_ He shakes his head. 

“Well, I’ll keep thinking on it,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale interrupts before Crowley can offer any more ‘suggestions’, “Maybe you could give us a moment in private, dear?”

Crowley stops his prowling across the floor to look between the two of them. Aziraphale, folds his hands, smiles, and waits. “Of course,” says Crowley, “Of course, I’ll just, uh, go, do that, uh… thing,” he finishes lamely before backing out of the room.

They hear him make his way into the bookshop before calling back, “Don’t feed him all our snacks! Those are for this weekend!”

Aziraphale shakes his head, and Pulsifer can’t help it, he laughs. 

\-------

It’s almost an hour later and Crowley has run out of things to pretend to do to keep him busy. He’s been respecting their privacy as much as he again without leaving entirely, but snippets of their conversation have reached him. 

He was tempted to interrupt twice - once when he heard Aziraphale bring up coming out to his family and once when Aziraphale started piling Pulsifer up with pamphlets and books and business cards; the poor kid needed a friendly ear not a library! But he trusted his husband and knew his input wasn’t needed.

In the last few minutes their chatter had changed topic; Pulsifer was once again encouraging Aziraphale to invest in more fantasy and sci-fi novels and Aziraphale was doing that thing where he pretended to be giving the issue serious thought while immediately dismissing it.

He made a point of walking louder than usual as he made his way to the back room where they were still seated. He smiled at the site before him when he walked in: the two on opposite ends of that beloved tartan couch, legs curled in with tea long gone cold resting on their knees between them. 

He leaned against the door frame, “Shop’s closed up for the afternoon. Ride home?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the style in this chapter is different out of an effort to avoid pronouns for one character for so long, so if you find it confusing or hard to read, please let me know.


	3. 3: Humiliated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daisy shows up unannounced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the 5 month hiatus; pandemic/working from home messed with my head space and time management. But, although I'm still working from home, NY is doing well, I've started grad school, and my motivation is back on track. I still love this story and am excited to share it with you. Thank you to all the wonderful people who have left comments; they make my heart sing.

"Daisy, love, what are you doing here?" Aziraphale says while scanning the street for her dad. “How did you get here?”

“Took the train,” she says simply as if it’s not a six hour trip with two transfers from Broadchurch to Soho.

Aziraphale wants to argue the point further but Crowley interrupts, joining his husband in the doorway, “Perhaps instead of beleaguering _how_ she got here, we should be more concerned with the why, yeah? Are you alright, Dais? Is your father?”

“He’s fine.”

“We’re both fine,” she amends quickly as she sees Aziraphale opening his mouth to ask the follow up question. She weaves her way through the bookshop. She’s only been inside once before but there’s something familiar about it as she makes her way to the back room where she knows there’s a couch waiting for her to sink into.

“You don’t look fine,” says Crowley once she’s seated. “In fact, you look like you spent the better half of the train ride in tears. Talk to us.”

At first Daisy looks like she’s going to avoid the topic, eyes scanning around the backroom in a panic, looking for something, anything, that could provide a worthy distraction. But then she catches sight of the two men sitting before her, nothing but kindness and concern etched into their faces, and the entire story comes pouring out - the photos on her phone, finding out they’d been distributed online, the boys behind it, the endless messages she’d been receiving since, her embarrassment, her anger, her shame. 

When she finishes recounting what happened, how her most vulnerable self had been shared with her entire class and half the town, she deflates. The simple act of explaining what happened in full, to two people she loves and trusts, has taken a huge weight off her shoulders. She loosens her grip on the pillow that made its way into her lap and forces herself to take a deep breath.

“Are you alright, dear?” Aziraphale is the first to break the silence after her confession. 

She starts to nod, thinks better of it, and shrugs instead. She isn’t entirely sure what she’s feeling right now aside from wrung-out, but Crowley seems to understand. He makes his way over to the couch to sit next to her and puts a calming hand on her knee. “I’m sorry this happened to you.” 

She nods again. Now that the story is out, additional words seem superfluous. 

She hears Aziraphale stand and looks up as he starts to make his way to the front room. 

“I find a bit of cocoa does wonders at healing the soul,” he says by way of explanation. Daisy accepts his words at face value but Crowley knows he’s giving them some space to talk further. 

A moment later Daisy breaks the silence, “What should I do?” she sniffles. 

“What do you want to do?” Crowley responds gently, wanting to put the power back in her hands.

She looks up confused, “I don’t think there’s anything I _can_ do,” she mutters miserably.

“You always have choices. I mean, if you even want to take action - Do some personal sleuthing? Report it to the principal and get them suspended?” he pauses, “We could also go to the police?”

Daisy shakes her head miserably, “I just want it to go away”

“Well,” Crowley thinks for a minute before responding, “We can probably get it removed from that particular site, but it won’t disappear from existence entirely.” 

“Some of them probably saved it to their phones,” he adds in case she hadn’t thought of that.

She buries her head in her hands, “I don’t know what to do.” She breathes into the pillow, tears starting to fall again.

He combs a hand through her hair soothingly, “It’ll blow over eventually.”

“He’s right,” says Aziraphale, returning from the kitchen with two cups of cocoa and a hot tea. “They’ll find something else to entertain them sooner or later. The new thing to pass around for cool points.”

Daisy knows he’s right, but doesn’t want to have to wait however long it takes for them to find something new to focus on. She feels raw and broken and the unfairness of it all is weighing down on her. It all feels hopeless and she says so.

Crowley doesn’t offer her false hope or meaningless platitudes, just continues to be a rock for her to cling to as she weathers her personal storm. A few minutes pass and she reaches for the cocoa Aziraphale placed in front of her. It’s cooled to the perfect temperature, and she can’t help but smile as she takes a sip. There really is something to be said about comfort food and how it affects the soul.

She wipes the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, waving Aziraphale down when he offers to go get a box of tissues. Her head a little clearer now she asks, “I know they won’t ever forget this - _I_ won’t ever forget this - but what can we do to give them something else to talk about before I have to go to school on Monday?”

Crowley is silent for a moment and then a mischievous gleam lights up his face. Aziraphale who’s known him for almost two decades has a bad feeling about whatever is going to come out of his mouth next.

“We could facilitate the next big thing.”

“What?” asks Daisy confused.

“Make news that’s more exciting than, you know, this,” he says waving his arm around the room to encompass all that’s unravelled in the last 24 hours. “Create a story that distracts that from the photos and gives them something else to gossip about.” He pauses, “We could even make them jealous.”

Aziraphale puts his head in his hands; he knew he wasn’t going to like the suggestion.

Daisy is still confused. “What?” she asks again.

“I know people,” Crowley responds vaguely. “Celebrity gossip is way more exciting than teen gossip. No offense.” When he’s still not getting a response he adds, “I could ask Barbara Sallick or, I dunno, Brady Williams to meet up with you, take a few photos, post them online. You could even do an interview.”

At her blank look, Aziraphale interrupts. “Afraid only you know who those people are, my dear. Most people don’t memorize the who’s who list of UK interior design.”

Crowley blushes. “Keith Jarret?” he offers tentatively.

Aziraphale smiles, “Just because he’s _my_ favorite author this year, doesn’t make him famous either.

Crowley blushes deeper, thinks a moment, and snaps his fingers. “Bobby Berk?”

Silence.

“Brian May?” 

She’s staring at him with an open mouth now. 

“Please tell me you know who Brian May is,” he says desperately.

“You know Bobby Berk AND Brian May and you were just holding onto that information?!” she explodes, “Were you just waiting for me to have a crisis to reveal this??”

Crowley opens his mouth to respond, closes it, opens it again, thinks better of it, and shrugs.

“Oh. My. God! You’re insufferable!” Daisy mock-yells, smiling her first genuine smile of the evening. “I cannot believe you know Bobby Berk and Brian May.”

Assuming this means he has her approval, Crowley continues as if it’s no big deal, “I’m pretty sure Bobby is permanently in the U.S. at the moment, but Brian isn’t too busy in retirement. Let me find out if we can meet up tomorrow.”

“Please don’t do anything we’ll be regretting for the next millennium,” Aziraphale interjects, summarily ignored by both other occupants of the room. Crowley because he always ignores Aziraphale words of caution in situations like this and Daisy because she still hasn’t quite wrapper her brain around the fact that Crowley - her uncle Crowley - is in personal contact with Brian May, legendary guitarist and songwriter, and is apparently _texting him right now_.

It only takes a few seconds for a response to chime. 

Crowley smiles, eyes sparkling. “How’s 8am?”

\-----

With a solid plan in place, the three begin chatting about whatever comes to mind and it isn’t long before it comes out that Alec doesn’t actually know where Daisy is at the moment, and all the hard-fought calm quickly evaporates from the room.

“You mean he doesn’t know you’re here?!!”Aziraphale is beside himself.

Daisy looks sheepish, “no,” she admits.

“Why would you do that? Are you purposely trying to scare him?” Crowley cannot believe that he has been an unwitting accomplice to this for the last hour. 

“I let him know I was safe,” Daisy attempts to defend herself, but knows it’s a lost cause.

“So he knows you left, and went somewhere safe, but not that you’re here?” questions Aziraphale.

A quick nod to confirm.

“Where does he think you are Daisy?”

Daisy doesn’t answer, looks away embarrassed.

A horrible thought occurs to Crowley. “Does he think you went to your mum’s?”

Silence.

“Daisy”, he blows an exasperated breath, “Did you tell him that just to hurt him?”

Daisy shrugs, not wanting to face that the honest answer to that is probably yes. Yes she lashed out and told him something untrue because she wanted to spread the misery, yes. she did something hurtful because she was hurting, yes, yes to all of the things Crowley is silently accusing her of. 

Well, admitting fault is the first step in making an apology. She nods.

Crowley makes a sound that can’t quite be interpreted in human vocabulary, and has his phone against his ear before he’s even made it out of the room. 

She knows he’s calling her dad, and although she can only hear one side of the conversation, it doesn’t seem to be going in her favor. Crowley is apologizing too much. Agreeing too much. There’s an extended period of silence and then “I’ll talk to her”, that’s not so bad, and “first train, of course” and her heart falls - so much for meeting Brian May.  
\-------

Crowley hangs up and turns to look at her. His face is full of disappointment, and somehow that’s almost worse than everything else that’s happened.

She shrinks further into her seat, refusing to make eye contact.

He crosses his arms. “Apparently you're grounded immediately and I’m supposed to put you on the first train home.”

“But...!”

He considers her for a moment, taking in everything that’s been said and done and said to lead to this exact moment, and makes up his mind, and scrolls quickly through his phone, “Lucky for you, your father knows nothing about train times from London.” He shoots off a text, “and expects us to be arriving in Broadchurch around 6pm.”

“That means...” she says, barely daring to hope.

“Yes.”

“Thank you” she breathes standing up to throw her arms around him in a huge hug.

“Don’t make me change my mind. And don’t think I condone you disappearing like that, or lying to your father just to hurt him. You owe your father about 70 apologies.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

“It’s not me you should be apologizing to.”

She nods.

“You need to call him.”

She was expecting that, but that doesn’t make doing it any easier. She nods to show she heard him, but doesn’t let go of the hug yet, taking the strength she needs from it. Something Crowley said floats across her mind. She pulls back a little, and looks up. “Wait... did you say he expects _us_ tomorrow at 6?” 

“Hmm... yes, about that.” He steps back to get a good look at her, no longer angry, but wanting to convey the seriousness of this. “Trust is something that needs to be earned by responsible behavior ... and you’ve temporarily lost it.”

“I’ll earn it back.”

“You will,” he agrees easily. “Now, go call your dad.”


End file.
